


Dirty Little Secret

by sekaiseifuku



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-15
Updated: 2010-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:51:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sekaiseifuku/pseuds/sekaiseifuku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Japan decides that he wants to top America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Little Secret

Japan is America’s dirty little secret: one he tries desperately to hide from the other nations …and most importantly from himself.

It’s been quite some time since that first night, countless decades ago, when he first swung by Japan’s house on his way home from some sort of meeting with Holland. He can’t recall how many decades it had been since Japan had finally agreed to come out of his room, but it had been long enough that the two nations had fallen into an easy relationship. America had begun to drop in every time he was in the neighborhood, just to say hello. He’d told himself it was the least he could do, keeping the other nation interested in the world outside his borders. Looking back, he realizes that there was something that had drawn him to Japan, even before the other nation had opened his door to let the world in.

Now, even when many more years have passed than he wishes to remember, America still finds himself infatuated with Japan. He is the opposite of what America knows himself to be, and it is perhaps this contrast that draws him to the other nation. He is silent, where America is outspoken. He carefully devises each of his actions, when America moves determinedly forward. He reveals nothing when he speaks, polite words masking a myriad of meanings while America can’t imagine saying anything other than what he means.

America finds himself thoroughly perplexed by Japan, a state in which he rarely finds himself. And he finds that he likes it

~*~

 The garish neon lights of Kabukicho are a blur as the two nations bid their fellow G8 members farewell. These days, no matter what the occasion, Japan and America always leave together. It’s become so commonplace that no one seems to notice anymore, except for perhaps Russia, who seems to notice everything. This time, America didn’t even bother with the pretense of a hotel near the conference site as he’d done in the past. He knew he’d be staying with Japan.

Japan raises his hand in an attempt to flag down a passing taxi. America’s knowledge of Japan’s capital city pales in comparison to the other nation’s of course, but he’s been here enough to know an empty taxi will be hard to come by at this hour, particularly one willing to pick up someone so obviously a foreigner. But the bite of the still-cold spring air feels good after the stuffiness of the karaoke box. He’s drunk, but not so drunk that he’s opposed to walking and he’s wearing his good coat.

Japan, however, seems to have other ideas.

“ _Yokatta_ ,” Japan half-whispers as a taxi finally pulls to their side. America feels the other man’s hand firm on the small of his back, guiding him toward the opening door. “After you, America-san.”

America pauses for a fraction of a second, glancing back at his companion. He knows that the other nations accuse him of being obtuse in many situations, and maybe he is. But he knows he can count the number of times Japan has touched him in public on one hand. After tonight, maybe two.

Japan wears the same impenetrable expression he always does – the only thing different a faint flush across his cheekbones from the alcohol he’d consumed throughout the evening. And to be honest, they’d had quite a bit. The conference was tense and once they had come to at least a preliminary consensus on the matter at hand, the eight of them had unanimously agreed that dinner was most certainly in order. And because they were in Tokyo, karaoke and a seemingly unending supply of liquor inevitably followed.

Several times over the course of the evening, as England sang maudlin songs and Italy began to cling more closely to Germany, America noticed that Japan was _looking_ at him. Not passing glances or even the polite regard that would be appropriate when America’s turn at the microphone arrived – this was Japan focusing the majority of his considerable attention on him for the better part of three hours. It was unlike Japan to be so … blatant … in his regard. The feel of that steady gaze on him throughout the course of the evening was as unsettling as it was thrilling.

The ride home is quick. The light from the streets beyond suffuses the interior of the cab with a wash of ever-changing primary colors and the entire time, America is acutely aware of Japan’s presence next to him. Despite the fact that they’re on opposite ends of the seat, it’s almost as if the cab itself isn’t quite large enough for the two of them. America feels on-edge somehow, like he can’t quite catch his breath. Every shift, every hint of movement from the other nation sends a wave of something akin to anticipation coursing through him.

As the cab pulls up in front of the ancient dwelling, hidden behind a cemetery and against one of the city’s rare green spaces, Japan passes his wallet over the cab’s pay-reader and thanks the driver. The door swings open and America steps once again into the crisp night. He takes a lungful of cold air, tilting his head back until there is nothing in his vision but inky night and clouds reflecting the lights of the city back at him.

“America-san, are you not cold?” Japan holds open the sliding door, waiting.

“Nah, not really.” America grins. “But you must be.” Japan is always cold.

As he crosses the threshold and slips off his shoes, he hears the click of the latch behind him and suddenly Japan is _right there_ , nimble hands grabbing him by the lapels of his coat, shoving him against the door and dragging him down into a fierce kiss.

 _Gods, yes._

He can never tell how the other nation is going to be on these nights, but whatever the situation, it is always Japan who determines it.

Sometimes they arrive and Japan excuses himself to his private bath after politely showing America to the spare room in the back of the house. He doesn’t see him again until morning.

Other times, the television is out and they watch old tokusatsu movies until dawn.

Still others, Japan disappears briefly as he fetches a bottle of sake – or in particularly difficult times, whisky – and brings it back with two cups. On these nights, more often then not, they drink until America garners enough chutzpah to close the inches between them and thread his hands through short hair, pulling Japan close and taking his pleasure of him. Those nights, Japan melts into him so easily, all luxurious sensation and passivity.

But sometimes … every so often and generally when the smaller nation has already indulged in more alcohol than is wise … Japan decides that he wants to fuck America.

And America lets him. He welcomes it, in fact.

These are the nights he lives for.

They stumble into Japan’s room, the straw of the tatami mats smooth against America’s feet. The futons have already been laid out for them and as America fumbles with the ties of Japan’s outer coat, he can feel the other nation’s hands already inside his own coat, loosening his tie and baring his skin. The contrast of the heat of Japan’s hands and the cold of the unheated room, the feel of that mouth against the column of his throat, _biting_ him … the room spins and suddenly America is on his back, Japan lying full on top of him and invading his mouth with that delicious, sinful tongue.

Japan is aggressive tonight – more so than he usually is, even in these situations – and never, not in a million years, would America even admit that this is the way he likes it … this is the way he _needs_ it and no one, not England or France or even Russia, has ever been able to take him with the sheer force of domination that Japan can.

 _This_ is what he fantasizes about, late at night when he’s alone in his house. The nights he lays awake, worrying about his economy or the crazy orders coming down from his boss, he thinks about what it’s like to be away, pressed face down into the coarse cotton fibres of a futon that smells overwhelmingly of Japan: ancient wood, used-up tea leaves and the heavy scent of blossoming trees in damp spring air.

Japan breaks their kiss long enough to pull back and remove America’s glasses. Sometimes the smaller nation leaves his glasses on – as if he wants America to experience their encounter in sharp detail – but tonight he seems intent on laying the other nation completely bare before him.

Without his glasses, Japan appears to America painted in watercolor, the angles of his face blurred and softened. The moon, high in the sky, casts a blue light through the paper screens that separate Japan’s room from the rest of the house and throws long shadows across the room. Japan’s kimono has loosened, slipping down to reveal a thin shoulder and America feels desire, sharp and weighty, blossom within him at the sight. He wants to lean up, to taste the hollow of Japan’s throat, to trace the ridge of that collarbone with his tongue, but before he can, Japan unties his obi and slips out of his kimono in a fluid, almost serpentine motion. America’s clothing is removed quickly, cast onto the tatami beside them without a second thought and he gasps at the shock of overheated skin against his own.

No matter how many times he’s experienced this in the century and a half he’s known Japan, the first touch is always the most thrilling … as if he’s experiencing their first encounter again, and again, and again. He’s been aroused since the taxi, half-knowing it would come to this tonight, and now, with Japan’s hungry lips on his skin and those nimble hands touching him in all the right places, that arousal has grown into something vast and almost overwhelming.

It’s like this _every time_.

“America-san …” Japan breathes into his neck as he bites, teeth exerting pressure that so expertly skirts that tantalizing line between pain and pleasure. The silence after his name is heavy with thoughts unspoken. It’s an expression of longing, of possession, of desire. It’s a request, a question, an order.

America can’t get enough of the feel of Japan’s skin underneath his hand, made all the more enticing by the pattern of scars littering his body. He knows exactly which ones he caused, and instead of them being a source of shame as they once were, America now seeks them out. He, too, has scars from the other nation and at times like this he realizes how strongly these now superficial marks tie the two of them together. They are both alive and whole, and despite the earth-shattering importance of those events at the time, the scars they have left each other are now nothing more than cosmetic reminders of events that have begun to slip into the fading memories of history.

What is more important is that they are here, now … _like this_.

A moan escapes as America first feels a slick finger entering him, then another. Japan continues his assault on his body, nipping at his earlobes and twisting his nipples as he invades him, stretching him with two fingers, then three. America thinks he could fall apart just like this, but then Japan removes his fingers and is pressing into him and he is washed away in a flood of desperate pleasure. He feels Japan moving inside him, the sharp burn of his length almost too much for nerves already alight with need.

Japan _fucks_ him, hard and fast and violent – such an enormous force contained in such an innocuous-seeming form. If they were in a bed, America might reach up to brace himself against the frame. But lying there on a futon, he has no option other than to wrap his legs around Japan, the motion tilting his hips up so Japan is hitting him _there_ with every .. single …stroke.

It’s raw, intense, and everything America has fantasized about.

Japan is completely silent as he thrusts into America. It is a silence that is almost obscene in its completeness. America chokes back a symphony of gasps, moans and pleas, but there is nothing from Japan but the harsh intake of his breath and the sound of his body careening toward an ever-closer pinnacle.

In a millisecond that passes before he can quite realize it, America gives himself over to the sensation that has long threatened to oh-so-skillfully push him over the edge. As it washes over him, he feels his body somehow relax as it contracts into a single point of pleasure that explodes across him, wiping his senses and obliterating his consciousness.

Japan is not far behind.

America doesn’t know how long they lie there, naked, Japan’s form collapsed on him, but it’s been long enough for his cock to soften, their breathing to slow and for fine bumps to begin to rise on Japan’s skin.

“Japan, you’re cold.” Not a question, but a reminder.

“Yes.” Japan doesn’t move.

Japan’s face is pressed against his chest so that America can’t see the other nation’s expression, but he thinks Japan might be embarrassed. He wraps one arm around the smaller nation, the other reaching for a duvet and pulling it over them.

Japan resists, pulling back likely to excuse himself, but America doesn’t allow it.

He doesn’t want to let go of the feeling of Japan’s weight on top of him.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't remember exactly who was involved (*ahem* genkisakka and kikotei) or how things began, but there was a conversation in the not-so-distant past that ended with the consensus that America was occasionally Japan's drunken booty call and that someone needed to write that. And I just couldn't get the idea out of my mind.


End file.
